


Hollow Victory

by Resoan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: End-Inquisition, F/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 02:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3157964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resoan/pseuds/Resoan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The final battle with Corypheus comes at long last, though no one expects what's to come when it's over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hollow Victory

The trek from Skyhold to the valley where Haven had once been was tense and utterly silent; the quiet trill of armor clinking was the only thing reminding the Inquisitor that she wasn't completely alone, though in truth, it did still feel that way – had ever since they'd returned from the Arbor Wilds. Such was a memory she forced away, though; thus far, she'd held her composure together through sheer force of will, though her magic had become...chaotic as well, almost as though mirroring her state of mind.

Cullen had not been pleased to hear Velahari tell him that she and her companions would find Corypheus without his forces to bog down their progress, though Leliana had insinuated a few of her own spies for the additional protection: in the end, however, it would be Velahari herself ending the blighted magister's megalomaniacal reign before it ever really began. The Anchor seemed to pulse the closer they came to the scar left behind after the Breach's initial explosion, and though Morrigan eyed her thoughtfully, the witch said nothing: truly, such was how the Inquisitor preferred it. The time for talk and discussion was done: the culmination of all the Inquisition's efforts was coming to a head, and everyone in her party knew what was at stake should they fail in their endeavors.

It was the screech of the high dragon, blighted by Corypheus's corruption, that had everyone reaching for their weapons; Morrigan was gone in the blink of an eye, and before the dragon could swoop down upon them, another streaked across the sky with a shriek that forced Velahari to wince. She heard the faint curses and expletives on her companions' lips at Morrigan's transformation, though Velahari pressed forward as Corypheus stepped into view, the orb curled easily in his misshapen hand. The artifact glowed an eerie, Fade-reminiscent green, though it now had tendrils of ethereal red slithering around it: not unlike serpents on fire, fangs bared and ready to strike whoever proved unlucky enough to touch the orb and absorb the blighted essence it now boasted.

“Tell me, mortal,” he began, his tone belligerent and arrogant: as though he were toying with a child or an insect he could flick away with a singular movement of his bony wrist. “Where is your Maker now? Call down his wrath upon me!” Cassandra bristled just beyond her, dark eyebrows drawing together and a growl shaping in the back of her throat though she refused to let it pass her lips. “You cannot,” the would-be god continued. “For he does not _exist_.” He leveled his accusations in her direction as though they _mattered_ ; what care did she have for the Maker? The elves did not worship the Maker, and so far as she was aware, there was little and less proof of the god's existence anyway – the creature's words succeeded in angering Cassandra, but she was not so green as to lose herself to mere words that were intended to inflame.

“Bow before your new god, and be spared.” She didn't need to look into his grotesque features to hear the sneer that curled at his lips, and that was when magic sizzled in her palm, and a bolt of lightning came streaking out of the darkened sky: dangerously close to where Corypheus stood, and undoubtedly too close for comfort as he let out a sound of surprise and anger before narrowing red eyes and answering in kind. Iron Bull let out a vicious roar intermixed with qunari phrases Velahari couldn't even begin to translate, and the determination she saw on Blackwall's face as he ran past her, his shield held high and his sword tight in his hand, gave her some of his similar resolve: she sincerely hoped he found some of the atonement he'd been seeking since his past had come to surface.

Cole was suddenly gone from sight when she cared to look: cloaked in shadows and hiding daggers until they found themselves embedded in the ancient magister's back; the sound he made brought a dark smile to Velahari's lips. Thankfully, the rogue managed to slip back into the shadows before Corypheus could recover enough to aim a fireball in his direction; green eyes blinked lamely when a fireball barreled by mere seconds after she'd considered, and she craned her head to give Dorian a stern look – another inch to the left, and he'd have singed off her sleeve or left her arm with a severe burn for later. It was another second later that something warm and soothing enveloped her: deft, invisible fingertips that wove themselves around her form and shielded her; _Solas_ . Her breath came sharply then, like icicles forming in her lungs, though she didn't falter: couldn't allow herself to when they were all so _close_ to ending everything, once and for all.

Sera and Varric were inexplicably _laughing_ somewhere behind her; “Nice try, Buttercup, but Bianca'll make one in his face first.”

“Oh yeah? We'll just see, won't we?” Any other time, Velahari might have shaken her heard, a shade of an amused smile playing on her lips; instead, she willed another lightning bolt to strike on Corypheus's head just as Vivienne closed in: her incorporeal blade of spirit energy gleaming like a literal sword in sunlight – it very nearly hurt to look at for too long a period of time, though she cut and sliced with the same proficiency as Cassandra and Blackwall, both of whom were grateful for the barrier Vivienne cast when her sword began to fizzle out of existence and she began to retreat.

The battle, on the whole, was going more smoothly than Velahari might have otherwise anticipated; the appearance of the dragon, very much still alive even if wounded, made her rethink such a notion. Morrigan was on the ground, clutching a wound that bled through her pale fingertips, and Velahari's heart raced even as Corypheus seemed to flee and the group's attention focused on the dragon. Her grip on her stave tightened even further as resolve settled deep in her bones: she'd fought her fair share of dragons with the Inquisition, but this was something different, and currently, the only obstacle between her and finishing Corypheus off completely.

Her left hand curled into a light fist, and though she knew some of her party frowned upon her use of the Anchor as a means to attack – some claimed it made the mark worse, or might detract from her own health or lifespan – she opened it to the sky and clenched: feeling and testing for the magic she knew to be there before utilizing it. A rift opened above the massive beast: clawing and tearing and even attempting to _pull_ it through, though it remained; it did, however, thrash and let out a harrowing sound, blighted fire reaching up into the abyss as though it may help. The dragon remained motionless for several heartbeats, and though she could feel Solas's frown directed at her back behind her, that didn't stop their combined assault.

The battle was beginning to take its toll, even as the dragon showed signs of slowing; Blackwall had taken a more defensive posture instead of an aggressive one, though Cassandra remained strong: even if Velahari could see the grit of her jaw and the fury in her eyes – such things only fueled her for so long, and Velahari feared for when that ended. Velahari herself felt stripped of mana: as though the lyrium within her was as dry as an overused oasis, though at least she'd had the foresight to bring some of the potions with her. The liquid was cool and crisp, as it always was, though the taste had a metallic twinge as well which wasn't surprising – the dwarves tended to consider it a metal of some sort, yes?

When the dragon finally fell and blood began to pour from the deep wound to its neck, the group breathed a collective sigh; potions were passed around, major injuries inspected more closely, though no one wasted a second longer than necessary. “Come on,” Velahari eventually murmured, her arm arcing across her forehead and wiping away the sweat that had accumulated there. “We still have business to attend to.” Her eyes flicked across everyone's face momentarily save for Solas – she doubted her ability to endure the pity in his eyes, and losing herself now was unacceptable. She was so close, so _close_ , and she refused to falter now of all times.

“Time to kick some Coryphy-nus butt, yeah?” Sera perhaps seemed the most invigorated, even after a gout of fire had singed her leg and left her admittedly less mobile than before, and Velahari managed a sly smile before rounding on her heel and heading towards the stairs where Corypheus had earlier fled.

The magister seemed...out of sorts when the Inquisitor and her companions approached: agitated, _angry_ , perhaps more reckless now that his pet dragon had been put down. “This ends here,” Velahari told him darkly, lips curling into a scowl even as the crazed being's eyes met hers and fire erupted from his fingertips with an ease she could only envy. The familiar hum of magic came to her fingertips as a barrier shielded Blackwall and Iron Bull as they made their way forward, and she was grateful Solas had taken the time to insist all the mages learn such a skill considering Corypheus seemed intent on _her_ demise in particular; the barrier that surrounded her a few moments later was stilted for lack of a better term: not lacking in skill, but in execution, and she nodded at Dorian over her shoulder as a tacit thank you.

The final blow that landed the would-be god on his knees came from Iron Bull: a devastating, _savage_ blow that had cleaved into the blighted creature's side until black blood began to flow. Magic fizzled and eventually sputtered from his fingertips until the orb rolled away from his grasp as that same hand attempted to cover his wound: he'd likely never seen the need for healing arts in all his power-hungry haze. “ _No_ ,” came the singular word from his jagged lips, his eyes on the Inquisitor only as she bent forward to retrieve the orb which glowed even more brilliantly in her hands: completely free of corruption, though it was likely the nature of the object, and not simply her touch that had done so.

“Not...like this,” Corypheus continued as Velahari stepped closer, her free hand gesturing for the others to stay behind, though most did so only reluctantly. “I have walked the halls of the Golden City, crossed the ages...,” his voice trailed off, and Velahari's lips pursed in judgment: as swift and unforgiving as the headsman's axe.

“And now you see how much that has gained you,” she replied, words as cutting as a blade.

The arrogance returned to him even as close to death as he was, and the Inquisitor's expression hardened. “You did not think I would go without ensuring my rise to glory, did you, elf? Your life is tied to mine: I will live anew so long as your heart beats in your chest.” _Liar_. It was the first word to curl around the tip of her tongue, to hurl at him in insult and disbelief, though...

“Kill him and be done with it!” Sera and Bull shouted together, and Velahari didn't glance back, not yet; her heart was heavy, but she knew what needed to be done.

“You want the Fade so badly?” she asked him, a surprising strength in her tone; she chanced a single gaze back towards Solas, towards the indecision and budding curiosity in his expression, though his eyebrows furrowed and confusion took their place when their eyes met. “Then allow me to give it to you.” Her eyes glowed briefly with the same, eerie green light as the Anchor and the orb, and the haze of magic and energy surrounded Corypheus...only to whip out towards her and drag her along into the vortex of swirling, dangerous force.

“Inquisitor!” Velahari could scarcely make out the dire concern in Solas's voice as it somehow managed to carry over the cacophony the magic made in her ears, and she turned her head slightly to him once more, her smile fragile and her eyes glassy. The magic converged on the pair of them after that, and the very last thing the Inquisitor was to hear was the anguished, heart-wrenching cry that billowed from Solas's lips despite himself. “ _Vhenan!_ ”

Cassandra was on her knees where the Inquisitor had been half a second later: not even ashes remaining in her wake; her hands shook, and the tears that rolled down her cheeks were a surprise even to her as Varric took up a place at her side, his expression scarcely better than hers – first Hawke, now the Inquisitor. Perhaps it _was_ him after all.

“W-what? No. No no no no. This is some shitty joke.” The terror in Sera's voice stripped away her real age until she sounded a child: or, perhaps, an _orphan_ who'd just watched her only family die in front of her eyes. “You'll come out of the Fade in a second, laugh at how stupid we're being, and...and...,” Sera's voice trailed off, and Dorian's hand on her shoulder startled her enough that she let loose the tears that had been building disbelievingly behind her eyes. “ _Shit_. **Fuck** _ **.** _ This isn't happening. _Tell me_ this isn't happening,” Sera's tone turned angry, pleading, and her hands were balled up in the fabric of Dorian's cloak. The look of perpetual good humor had been stripped from the Tevinter mage's face, and even with Sera's wide, pleading gaze, he could do little else but shake his head somberly and cradle the back of her head when it came to rest on his shoulder.

Dorian wracked his brain for anything he might say to help Sera, to alleviate any of the pain she might be feeling, but all that came to mind were banal platitudes, and even then, his heart ached as well; his lips trembled and his teeth grit as he fought away the tears.

“She...sacrificed herself.” Cole was still processing, was still actively trying to understand what had just _happened_ , but even then, some strange sensation welled up within his chest until it threatened to burst. It was frightening. “Pained, but protecting. Heart races, lips tremble, but she does it anyway. The world... _the world deserves more than just my life if it can be made safe_.” The sensation began to fill all the empty spaces, the hollows and crevices Cole hadn't even known existed before right then, and when his breath became staggered and refused to come easily, he felt it: the gripping, unrelenting pain that squeezed and pressed until he thought he might double over from the pain.

“A soul that was too good for this world,” Blackwall mumbled at Cole's side, his gaze heavy and his heart more so. How many genuinely good people had to die for a world that didn't bloody _care_ about them? How would it fare now that its fabled Herald of Andraste was dead – and without even ashes or a body to mourn properly? _The more I think I understand, the less I know I do_.

“Indeed.” Vivienne's voice was crisp, as it always was, though Blackwall could see the way her eyes flicked back and forth every so often, could even hear the slight tremble in her tone. She liked to think she was made of iron, but there was a woman underneath the veneer of nonchalance: a woman who felt deeply, who had opinions and a mind she didn't share with anyone but herself just in case someone found a way to use it all against her. She frowned then, a hand lifting to cover her lips as she inhaled just a bit sharply, though Blackwall pretended not to heart it for her sake; “Whatever are we going to do without her?” That was a question Blackwall could not answer: for he did not know the answer either.

At first, numbness had spread through his limbs: kept him firmly in place, even as his eyes bid him accept what had happened as he watched, unable to intervene. Once the numbness passed, Solas was on his knees, his hands on the cold ground as an agony he'd never once felt before ripped across him: tearing away everything he ever thought he'd known and carefully filed away about himself. Her absence, her _death_ had _not_ been part of the plan, and had he been more self-flagellating, he may have wondered that _none_ of his plans came about as he expected. For a few, excruciating moments, he could scarcely breathe: couldn't force his lungs to work when everything else in the world seemed to be so horribly, horribly wrong.

The distance between them he'd imposed had hurt yes, but it was a mere pinprick compared to now: to the overwhelming depression that could have so easily crushed him if he let it. His heart constricted, held in a vice of icy, unforgiving fingertips, and he felt his facade falter, and when his eyes opened, he very nearly found himself startled to see the orb: completely in-tact, and glowing benignly, as though somehow happy to see its rightful owner once more. The urge to hurl the blasted piece of shit at the nearest wall was beyond overwhelming, and though his fingers gripped it, he hadn't the strength to move it, to lift his arm even. His shoulders quaked, and silent tears made their way down his cheeks; _Give me Lavellan back,_ he prayed to no one in particular, though it was only a fool who ignored a god. _Fenedhis. I would rather the orb have been destroyed._ He had nothing left of her: no body, no ashes, not even a _memento_ , save perhaps for their memories...

“...Solas?” It was Iron Bull who addressed him, the only one to approach, though he could see something was off – perhaps it was in the way the man's shoulders quaked, or perhaps the tension in his stance even as he was kneeling. The very last thing he expected was for the elf to turn to him with a vicious expression: teeth bared, eyes no longer blue but bleeding into red; Bull took a step back as survival instincts bid him, and Solas stood after a moment, the orb in his hand.

The voice that spoke to him then didn't sound like Solas, not really: it was throaty, garbled somehow, otherworldly, and Iron Bull – slayer of demons and dragons – was afraid. “Do not come after me, Iron Bull. I have no desire to see more friends die.” And though Iron Bull would have called anyone a sodding liar who claimed someone could disappear in thin air, that was precisely what Solas did; he blinked, uncertain and disbelieving, and only belatedly did the qunari discover that the others were looking at him questioningly: wanting to know what had happened.

 


End file.
